In the middle of nowhere
by SilverRaindemon
Summary: AU How John could have met Sherlock in the Wild Wild West.


**Disclaimer**: I don't own Sherlock or the plot of Magnificent Seven. Just decided to see how the boys would look like in cowboy's hats.

Reviews are very welcome!

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The sun was scorching although it already was rather late in the evening. Strong wind playfully threw handfuls of sand around. John wiped the sweat off his forehead as he stepped out of the stage coach and took a look at a tiny town that was to be his new home now. It seemed to be just the same as any other little town this side of the frontier. A single wide street was lined with slapdash houses with men lazily sitting and standing on most porches. Their rough faces carried the same eternal expression of never going to give any fucks whatever happened. John sighed inwardly and scooped his bag from the coach. He was intending to go to the town inn and get a room at once but no sooner had he taken one step than an argument of sorts attracted his attention. And not only his, half the town seemed to be watching in an underhand way three men conversing near a mournful-clad bier.

"Sorry, but there will be no funeral," the undertaker said resolutely, "all the rest is ready and for 20 dollars I would gladly bury half this town, but not this time." He returned the money to one of the men in suits opposite him. The men exchanged uncomprehending looks, and John felt a familiar tug of curiosity in his chest. _No, no, I am supposed to go straight to the town mayor, I don't have time for this. _But his feet already were moving totally of their own accord taking him closer to the hearse.

"Why won't you bury him?" one of the men insisted. The undertaker hesitated before answering, "There is an element in the town that objects. They say he isn't fit to be buried there."

"What the hell?" the man exclaimed, "There is not one decent man buried there."

That, John realized, was hurtful to hear. After all he was supposed to spend his time here healing people like that and trying to prevent the overpopulation of the local cemetery. For some reason the local mayor was adamant about that.

"They happen to be white," the undertaker explained, "and old Sam here was an Indian. Not that that would matter for me, I always treat all people as my future customers anyway."

That was the last straw for John that renewed the torturous doubts of all the past weeks. Was he right to agree to set his practice here in one of the small frontier towns instead of going for a larger city in the Eastern coast? How could he bear being surrounded by racist and coarse cowboys and outright murderers all the time and survive himself? He never could control his stormy temper anyway, what made him think he would be able to do that here?

The argument was going on nevertheless, the man giving the money back to the undertaker and insisting he proceeded with the funeral. "I can't, " the undertaker was vehement, "my driver's quit. There's no one to drive the rig."

"Well, if that's the only thing holding things up, I'll drive it." John involuntarily turned to see who said this. The deep baritone belonged to a tall man with impossibly white for the local climate skin. He wore a relaxed bored expression on his thin face, bright grayish-blue eyes shone like quicksilver. Slender body was wrapped in simple black shirt and trousers. Dark springy curls flowed in the wind freely as the large black hat was in the man's hand. He calmly put it on then and matter-of-factly climbed on the coachman seat.

John couldn't stay still any longer. His bag forgotten on the ground, he trod towards the hearse taking his revolver out of the holster and climbed to the seat near the stranger.

"Are you sure?" the pale man drawled, one side of his mouth curled in a small smile, "Could be dangerous."

"Oh, God, yes," John breathed. The undertaker rushed to the hearse crying, "I will not have my bier shot at! It's the only one in the county!"

The driver of the stage coach, who was obviously in for the show, interceded, "Let them do it. I will pay for the expenses." Someone else chipped in and the dark-curled stranger masterfully set the horses in a slow trot. John was watching the houses along the road carefully. He noticed a slim short guy with slightly mad black eyes in a dirty white hat following them closer than the rest of the curious crowd.

"We have company," John announced in a hushed voice. His curly coachman spared a casual glance over his shoulder. The black-eyed cowboy smiled and energetically waved, showing his hands were empty and he was oh-so-supportive. "He's just another gawker," the verdict was. Bright blue eyes brushed along John's face before concentrating on the road ahead again.

"You are new in town," the stranger told John. "You're very good with the gun for which I happen to be glad, but you're not a cowboy or a gunman. You are a doctor. " John stared back at the stranger for a couple of seconds. Blue eyes pierced him like daggers but then a movement in one of the houses caught John's attention. He waited for the man hiding behind the curtain to show himself and two shots sounded almost at the same time. The curtain didn't move any more. The pale stranger bent the edge of his hat and coolly assessed the smoking bullet hole.

"Thank you," he said nonchalantly. John relaxed a little. They were nearing the top of the hill where the cemetery was. Five armed men were already standing there blocking the road. Their plain weathered faces gave out their simple brutal nature, those were people who shot first, then drank, ate and puked – and probably sometime later they could give a damn about whom they shot.

John aimed his gun, planning to take at least two to hell with himself. All thoughts flew from his head at this moment and he felt the pure thrill of mortal danger. This was why he had followed the pale stranger almost without a second thought. There was something about that man that showed he always walked on the edge, without fear, without apprehension. John loved the very idea of it.

The blue-eyed coachman stopped the horses right in front of the gunmen blocking the path. The gapers who had followed the hearse up the hill remained at a safe distance, only the short cowboy in a white hat crept closer before taking a strategic position behind a boulder. The rising wind whistled venomously between the graves.

"Turn around and get the hell out of here," one of the men rumbled, "we won't let you bury that dog near decent people."

"And who, pray, do you call decent people?" John's companion asked, crossing his arms on his chest. "Decent like you, on the left, using your Mexican friends for smuggling guns across the border," blue eyes moved along the line of armed men, "or you in the middle, doing despicable things to neighbour's cattle? Sorry, have no idea what's your name, didn't have time to get to know all the scum in this town."

John realized both red-faced men were going to shoot but he didn't manage even to move his finger on the trigger. When smoke cleared a little his curly companion was holding a gun and two men were grabbing at fresh wounds in their right hands and shoulders. Those left uninjured looked like they were seriously re-considering their points of view.

"Move from the road," the pale stranger ordered shortly and the path cleared instantly. Cheers from behind the hearse made John start. He forgot half the city was following them.

"I need six men here," the order of the blue-eyed gunman was executed immediately. After the coffin had been removed from the bier the stranger turned it and they went down the hill triumphantly. John jumped off the seat near the stage coach station and with surprise noticed his forgotten bag still lying in the dust. The curly man was saddling his horse, a large roan stallion. Something gripped at John's heart suddenly when he thought he might never see this strange man, who seemed to know everything about others from just one look, again. And he didn't even know his name.

"So," John called hesitantly, "what's your name?"

The man turned and smiled at John with just his sky-blue eyes, "Sherlock." He paused, then added as an afterthought, "You?"

"John." The young doctor tried to think of something else to say but could come with nothing more than, "See you round then?"

Sherlock nodded curtly, jumped into the saddle and disappeared in clubs of dust around the corner. John sighed, grabbed his bag and pensively strolled away to find the mayor's office.


End file.
